Christmas at Waratah Bay (5 page)

It really was too big, he thought as they heaved it onto the tray. This was a tree for a major Christmas celebration instead of for a quiet Christmas for one reclusive farmer, one New York supermodel flying in and out for a fleeting visit, and one dying old man.

“It’s not over the top,” Sarah said grimly, as if she could read his thoughts. “I haven’t ever given him a Christmas. I will do this.”

Forget boundaries. “Why haven’t you ever given him a Christmas?”

“For reasons that don’t concern you.”

“You’ve written every week but never visited?”

“Don’t judge me.”

But, she’d told him nothing, and it was pissing him off. He’d bared his soul; what about her? “I already have judged,” he snapped. Your whole family . . . Do you know how alone Harold’s been? He broke his hip two years ago and no one came near?”

“He broke his hip?” She turned and stared. “He never . . . ” She stared for a moment longer, saw the truth of it, then closed her eyes as pain washed over her face. “How . . . how badly?”

“Bad. It got infected. There were a few days . . . “But he stopped as her look of anguish deepened.

“He never said,” she managed. “He never told me. There’s hardly been a gap in the letters until now. A couple of late ones, but none missed. It must have been while I still couldn’t afford to phone. I guess . . . ”

“I guess he only told you what he wanted you to know.”

“I did the same for him,” she whispered. “I’m just glad that finally this time I could come. You know, I guess I hoped he’d go on forever. Just the same. Harold would always be here for me. But then, the letters stopped and I panicked and rang the hospital. I should have . . . ”

“Your whole family should have.”

“Leave it,” she snapped. “I’m here now. I came. I know I should have come earlier, but your judgment isn’t helpful. And, don’t you dare put on that scornful face in front of Harold or he’ll have your guts for garters. He loves me.”

“Guts for garters?” he said faintly. She was glaring at him, her fury and distress a heady mix. She had a smear of pine-sap marring one of her extraordinary cheek bones. There were pine needles in her hair. She looked . . . she looked . . .

Um, don’t go there. You do not want to feel desire for a woman who’s a fleeting apparition, a shadow from Harold’s past, a woman flying in and out of the country to assuage a guilty conscience.

Except desire wasn’t something he could turn on and off at will. He looked at her, and he knew very well what he was feeling.

She was gorgeous.

She was angry, accusing, upset. She was sap-stained and lovely.

She was not the least interested in desire.

“Let’s get this over with,” she snapped in words eerily reminiscent of his past vows, and he caught himself and grabbed a rope and started tying the tree down onto the tray.

And then, they both paused.

A car was heading toward them along the unsealed road. It was dirt-white, old, battered, and flying toward them far too fast.

Max’s truck was parked by the roadside, not far enough off to be safe. Instinctively he grabbed Sarah’s arm and hauled her back, behind the tray. The car was swerving in the dust, skidding, obviously driven by someone trying to impress, someone out of control, a hop-head or an idiot.

It didn’t slow as it reached them, just swerved dangerously close, then braked, skidded and swerved outward again.

But not before an arm had come out the window, holding out . . . a sack?

The sack was lobbed straight at them. A head appeared from the window, a youth, yelling in a drunken roar.

“Get a load of that,” he yelled. “Merry Christmas, guys. It’s all
&%$#
yours.”

The car swerved, only to do a crazy donut further down the road that almost rolled them. It steadied, straightened and roared off. The sound faded to nothing. The dust started to settle.

Max was suddenly aware that he was still holding Sarah. He’d tugged her into him, protective, and he held her still.

Her hair smelled of citrus. She felt . . . she felt . . .

Um, thinking of how she felt was maybe inappropriate? A sack lay close to their feet, a crumpled pile of hessian.

It moved.

Uh oh.

Max had lived in the country long enough to know what this represented. An easy way out. Townies with animals they no longer wanted.

Dump it on a farm. It’s far cheaper than taking it to the vet to euthanize. Tell the kids it’s gone to a nice farmer who’ll look after it
.

He’d lost count of the number of strays he’d had to take to the local animal shelter, knowing for most of them their fate would be euthanasia. Except, sometimes he couldn’t.

Bing, who was currently watching the sack with caution from the truck tray, was one of those strays. Bing was the best dog he’d ever had. Tip, Harold’s fox terrier, had arrived via the same route, and back at the house he had four assorted cats . . .

Enough. He’d drawn a line in the sand. He had Harold’s dogs to care for as well, and the last few times he’d found strays he’d hardened his heart and taken them straight to the local animal shelter.

But Sarah was tugging away from his hold, staring at the sack in horror. “What . . . ”

“Let me,” he said. Sometimes what he found was savage, a wild possum someone had caught, or a feral cat. The cruelty of tossing away something tied in a bag was unbelievable and yet . . .

“It’s . . .something’s alive.” She pulled away, but he grabbed her.

“No.”

“But . . . ”

“Let me.” He stooped and cautiously lifted a corner of the sack. There was no wild hissing. Instead, there was a whimper, a tiny yelp of pain.

A pup. Hell, a pup.

He grabbed the knife from his belt—as a farmer he went nowhere without his blade—and sliced the bag wide. And inside . . .

It was the ugliest puppy he’d ever seen. It was six to eight weeks old, certainly no older, and it looked like a cross between a cattle dog, a bull dog . . .and maybe a Pomeranian? It had the bluish coat of a heeler, the squashed nose and face of a bulldog and a tuft of white hair that ran the length of its back. It had pointy white Pomeranian ears. It had great bulldog eyes that were brown, wide, and currently filled with terror and pain.

It was a weird, crazy, mutant dog, a dog no one in their right mind would ever want—and Sarah hauled it out of the sack, lifted it against her heart and burst into tears.

*

“No.”

It was the first thing he could think of to say, but it was important. Enough. He’d learned the hard way. Lete emotion in and you’re screwed. How many times had his siblings brought the same request to him. “Please, Max, can we keep him?” There’d barely been enough money to keep all of them fed. His rule—with the exception of Bing and the odd kitten who’d gotten under his skin—was to make sure the creature had food and water and take it to the shelter fast.

Move on.

“No, what?” Sarah whispered.

“I’m not keeping him.” Okay, that sounded harsh, but if she knew how many times he’d had this conversation with himself . . .Every damned stray seemed to know Max Ramsey was a soft touch.

“He’s hurt. His leg’s hurt.”

“Let me see.” And that was a mistake. Don’t look too close. Food, water, shelter. He could get it to the shelter in half an hour. An hour’s interruption in his day, then move on with the rest of his life.

Except Sarah was looking at the pup with tear-filled eyes and something inside him was twisting.

No. No and no and no. This woman was heading back to New York. If she thought she was dumping him with another stray . . .

“He can come back to New York with me,” she said and he blinked.

“What?”

“You heard.” But she was hardly speaking to him. All her attention was on Mutant-Dog. She crouched in the dust and hugged and he was forced to squat and look.

That was a mistake, too. She was too close. She was too . . .

Dog. Concentrate on the dog.

“You know you can’t,” he said, gently now, in the tone he used for all his half-siblings and step-siblings when something was out of their reach. Which, with parents like theirs, was pretty much all the time. “This little guy needs owners who’ll love him, and he needs them straight away. Even if you can get him through US quarantine, do you want him to spend his life locked in an apartment in Manhattan?”

It was his most reasonable voice. It was his most reasonable argument. She should back off, hand him the puppy, swipe those tears away and move on.

She didn’t. She rose, hugged the puppy tighter and flashed him a look of fire.

“You know that won’t happen. Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve—who goes looking for a puppy on Christmas Eve? Someone who looks for a last ditch gift, an afterthought? Then after Christmas, who wants a puppy? That’s when dogs get dumped, when everyone goes on holidays. This little guy will be put down and you know it. Anyway, he’s mine. Didn’t you hear the guy in the car? “
Merry Christmas, guys. It’s all &%$# yours.”

“Sarah, you can’t keep him.”

“Butt out,” she said, fiercely. “If you won’t let me keep him at your place for the next couple of days, then I’ll keep him at Harold’s.”

“You know Harold would love to come to the big house.”

“Don’t you blackmail me.” She glowered. “You’re right, he would, and I need to be there to look after him so if you stay being a toe-rag then I’ll keep the puppy at Harold’s and go over and check on him every couple of hours.”

“It’s almost a mile!”

“I need to run. I always run. It’s how I survive.” She closed her eyes and the look he saw was suddenly raw, intense pain. And then, the look was gone. She opened her eyes and met his gaze, and he could see the thing was settled. No argument. The puppy had a home.

“He’s called Gerome,” she said.

“Gerome . . . ”

“A lady who loved in an apartment near us . . .years and years ago . . .had a garden gnome that looked just like this little guy on her balcony. Mrs. Amess loved him; she used to buff him with furniture polish every morning. She was so old . . . She used to say she’d leave me Gerome in her will but then . . . Well, I never knew what happened to Gerome until now. I imagined he’d be landfill somewhere. But look, Santa’s brought me Gerome for Christmas.”

“Sarah . . . ” There were so many reasons . . .

“I can do this,” she said, fiercely again. “You know what? I can even afford a dog sitter if I need to. Isn’t it amazing what money can do? It’s brought me here. I have Harold for Christmas and now I’ll have Gerome for ever after. That’s my family. Moving on, Max Ramsey . . . Can Gerome and I stay at your place or do I need to take Gerome home?”

And there was that word again. Home. And strangely, it was said with such longing . . .

“Of course you can bring him to the homestead.”

“Excellent,” she said and her anger and determination switched again to one of those high beam smiles. The smile that lit her face and everything within a twenty-yard radius. “Let’s get moving, then. We have a puppy to feed and a Christmas tree to set up, and then I believe I may need to do some cooking. Let’s move it, Mr. Ramsey. Christmas, here we come.”

‡

S
arah crooned to
the pup all the way back to the house. If she’d been one of his siblings that would have been the end of her for the evening, Max thought. She’d retire to her room with her pup. But Sarah had plans. Gerome was simply incorporated.

Back at the house, she left him to haul in the tree and hit the internet looking at puppy care. Fifteen minutes later she came to the sitting room to find him. She now had a bulge under her t-shirt—a Gerome-shaped bulge.

Max had got the tree upright. He was feeling okay about it, but as he looked at Sarah, he forgot about the tree. She looked . . . astonishing. International beauty, complete with mud-stains, pine sap and puppy bulge.

“The internet says keep him warm,” she said, as he gazed at the bulge. The bulge was wriggling. Sarah cradled the bulge with one hand but looked worried. “I don’t trust it. The internet says the best way is by pouch so I’ve rigged up a scarf. I think he’s secure, but if he’s not . . . Will you check?’